Counting Headstones
by runaway ballista
Summary: When Uther finally finds time to grieve for his parents, he finds he doesn't quite know how.  Uther/Leila


The official funeral procession was long and weary. Uther, ever aware that he was being watched, did not shed a single tear throughout its entirety. He kept his face tight and grim, jaw clenched, still as stone. Hector didn't weep either — he just looked angry. Uther was unsure as to how much of his anger was genuine and how much of it was simply to hold back tears, tears he was certain would come sooner or later, but he couldn't spare more than a moment dwelling on it. As the successor to the throne of House Ostia, he was just as important a figure in this funeral as his dead parents.

The struggle against disease had been an ugly, treacherous one, a battle that had carried on for years. But finally Marquess Tyr's weakened body had succumbed to death, and then his wife Rodena, not long after, gave out like a sigh. One day Uther would come to respect the strength with which his parents had faced their illness, but today the only taste in his mouth was a bitter, rancid one. When the funeral was over, he felt nothing but relief.

The coronation wouldn't be for a few days yet, so as to allow a proper mourning period. But now that he was to become marquess, there were so many things to attend to. With all the fuss and formalities, it didn't feel like there was any room for him to mourn his parents. Hector skulked off as soon as the funeral was over, no doubt to find an unsuspecting tree — or an unlucky opponent — to vent his feelings out on, but Uther was afforded no such luxury. As soon as the funeral was over, and his parents laid to rest in their plots, he was immediately swept away by advisor after advisor, and they filled his ears with words he had no current mind to comprehend. It seemed he could not escape them; they cornered him in his father's study — in his study — and in the throne room and anywhere in the castle he tried to go seeking reprieve. It was well after dark before they retired.

Uther was exhausted, but somehow he could not bear the thought of going to sleep, now that he had a moment's peace to himself. He thought now might be a good time to grieve, in the dark of the night when no one was watching, but all that welled up inside him was a quiet, humming numbness. It caught in his throat and it choked him, but he could not seem to move it.

The halls of Castle Ostia were empty this time of night. The only sounds were those of gentle sleep, muffled behind bedroom doors. Uther trudged wearily past them, feeling a weight settle over him. He felt suddenly stifled.

He sought the rear exit of the castle. The air outside was crisp and a little bitter, still well within the clutches of winter. But even as the cold air stung his nostrils, he felt the tightness in his chest ease up just slightly. The night was overcast, and the moonlight could not penetrate the clouds that covered the sky, but he breathed easier nonetheless.

A cobblestone road wound a twisting path through the estate gardens and to Ostia's graveyard, surrounded by stone walls. It was a grim sort of place, and to Uther it seemed even more so by the mere fact that so many of the graves were inhabited by knights, many of whom had died fighting for Ostia.

The plots reserved for the leaders of Ostia were at the far end of the cemetery, and though Uther had been there only earlier that day, in the dark he found it difficult to trace the path back to his parents' graves. His feet, heavy and aching, stumbled over the narrow paved path until he finally reached the designated plots.

The freshly churned earth around his parents' graves sparked a sick feeling in his stomach that he could not immediately identify. It was simply too new.

Marquesses and their families always had the largest headstones, engraved with elaborate patterns. Uther stared down at his father and mother's headstones, side by side, trying to make out the writing. In the dark, he could see nothing.

He knelt on the ground, and the cold seeped through his trousers and into his skin. He placed his palm flat against his father's headstone, and he stared at its inscription.

HERE LIES MARQUESS TYR OF OSTIA BELOVED BY HIS PEOPLE AND FAMILY BOTH

Below were inscribed the years of his birth and death, and a list of his deeds and accomplishments as marquess. It all felt terribly bland to Uther. This man hadn't just been marquess, he'd been a father. Uther began to feel sick. The cold nausea wore at the numbness that agitated his chest, eating away at it with every surging wave. The grief he had been waiting to feel began to well up in his chest all at once, crushing against his lungs. A choked noise, small and quiet, escaped his mouth. His shoulders sagged.

He was to be the marquess of Ostia, even as young as he was. He could show no weakness to the world. And yet here, in the face of the deaths of his parents… They had wasted away so slowly, and despite that, it all felt so sudden. He grew disconsolate, staring at his parents' graves in the dark. Tears leaked from his eyes, dripping hesitantly down his face. Grief and sorrow felt, more than anything else, like complete exhaustion.

The gentle sound of a quiet footstep behind him caught his attention. Startled, he turned his head, sniffing hurriedly. In the dark, he could just make out the figure of a woman nearly as tall as he was. Her footsteps were measured and cautious, as if she were approaching a wounded beast.

"My lord Uther?" Her voice was little more than a whisper in the still air.

Uther rose to his feet, his knees wobbling unpleasantly, and he sniffed again, doing his best not to sound like a sulking child. "Leila," he said, and tried to swallow the thickness in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

It wasn't the question he'd meant to ask, but the words escaped past his teeth before he could stop them. Leila came to a halt a mere few feet away.

"I just came to check on you, that's all." Although it was only the two of them in the cemetery, her voice remained soft and quiet. "It's been a long day, and you haven't been to bed yet."

"Who sent you? Oswin? Or maybe one of the old knights?" There was a bitter note to his voice that he failed to keep to himself. Leila didn't answer him.

A faint wind picked up, stinging the wet skin on Uther's face. He wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve. He wasn't embarrassed to cry in front of Leila, though he felt some dim sense of shame, somewhere in the back of his mind.

"It's hard, isn't it?"

It wasn't so much a question, but an observation. Her voice was serious as ever, notes of sympathy skirting around the words. She had certainly meant it as a comfort, as much as she could offer, but Uther's chest only hurt.

"I don't know," he said, his lips feeling raw and numb.

He thought he felt her inch closer, but it could just as well have been his imagination.

"How do I do it?" The words spilled out clumsier than he meant. "How do I — do I just keep on, just like that? As if they weren't there at all?" He didn't expect a reply, nor did he receive one. Leila merely stood behind him, still and silent as the dark. "Leila, it just…it hurts. That's all it does. I don't know what to do with it."

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, gentler than before. "It always will."

Uther felt something within him buckle. He placed his hand against his father's grave again, as if to steady himself. "That's it? So I just carry it with me, for the rest of my life? Is that what I'm supposed to do? Doesn't it ever get better?"

"Someday, it will," she said, her voice steady. "You'll carry it with you for the rest of your life, and you'll honor it, but someday, it won't sting to think of anymore. The hurt will fade away, but it will never leave you. The only thing you can do is carry it."

Uther knew she was speaking from experience, speaking of her own father who had passed away when she was still a girl, but he failed to detect even the slightest tremble in her voice. He couldn't help but spite her for it, just for a moment.

"Leila, I…" His voice creaked, and he let more tears fall from his eyes. They didn't seem ready to stop yet, anyhow. "There's so much I have to do now. I can't do this alone. Not all this."

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and when he turned to look at her, her eyes glistened brightly even in the dark. The last stab of spite faded away. "Lord Uther, you're not alone."

The pulse of relief he felt in his chest was cold, but it soothed him. He looked at her, tired and grieving but relieved, and another choked sound escaped his throat, louder this time. He couldn't help the way his eyes grew hot as tears fell of their own accord down his face. Leila closed her eyes, the faintest touch of a smile on her lips, and she closed her arm around Uther's shoulders.

"It's all right, my lord. We are all children when our parents die."

When he had wept, the pressure crushing against his lungs lifted and faded away. He could almost think clearly again, and though he was tired, it seemed as though the weight of exhaustion had been carefully chipped away from his mind. He had long days ahead of him, to be sure, and it wouldn't be easy. But he had grieved for his parents, and now he could sleep. Leila walked with him back to the castle through the dark of the night, her hand on his shoulder


End file.
